A Dragon Expendable
by Ramzes
Summary: Too many dragons were just as dangerous as too few, King Daeron II said. Does everyone agree? Chapter 4): Maekar
1. Mariah

**A Dragon Expendable**

The King entered his bedchambers on tiptoes. He knew his Queen was sunken into a heavy sleep by the milk of poppy but still, he did not want to take the slightest chance to disturb her. He was sorry that he hadn't managed to see her awake today but there had been indeed things that needed his own attention. Baelor did whatever he could to relieve him of any duties, letting him spend as much time with Mariah as possible but there were still some affairs of state that needed the King's attention, not the Hand's.

To his surprise, the great candelabrum in the bottom of the bedchamber was still burning. Mariah looked up from the bed she was half-lying in. "You're here," she said. "At last."

His delighted surprise that she had waited for him, instead of taking the potion, didn't last. He recognized the parchment she was holding… and he recognized the wrath behind her dark eyes. He hadn't seen it in years. "I see you know," he said.

Mariah tossed the parchment aside as if it was going to burn her. It fluttered in the air and fell on the floor next to the bed. "When were you going to tell me?" she asked. "Or did you mercifully intended to wait for me to die? Surely you must have known that _I would never let this come to pass_?"

She was obviously looking for a fight and this time, Daeron was more than happy to oblige her. The mentioning of her forthcoming death ate at him like a gaping wound. She was truly dying, he knew it. And he could not forgive anyone who told him that, including Mariah herself. "Do you think I need your permission?" he asked coldly. "I've let you too many liberties, my lady, but let's be clear: it's I who rule in the Red Keep and not you."

The blood drained from her face. In this moment, he sounded just like his father, her hated goodfather. The man had recently started visiting her in her worst nightmares.

Daeron looked at her pallid cheeks, the white-blue hands, the rings that dug so cruelly in her bloated fingers that they could never be taken off, and regretted the sharpness of his bite.

"It pains me as well, Mariah," he said, his tone gentler now. He sat on the bed and reached for her hand that she pulled away angrily. "But I cannot see a better way. Too many dragons are just as dangerous as too few."

She hissed like a Dornish snake, her eyes glittering. "Oh spare me, Daeron! All this dragon talk might work for your Small Council but don't you _dare_ pull this particular wool over my eyes. If you see them as dragons alone, I pity you. It's my grandchildren we're talking about!"

Of course she would not let this one go unchallenged. Daeron hated his fights with her because she was the most dangerous enemy, the one who knew where to hit to cause most pain. Of course, he was doing the same to her as well… Sending Aemon away was as cruel a blow as he could deal her. He cursed his carelessness in leaving the letter in their bedchamber where she could read it easily. But she had never stooped so low before!

"My grandchildren as well, Mariah," he reminded her and sighed. Maybe he should try honesty this time. "You know I love him as much as you do. But there are too many of them."

"And I adore them all, from Valarr to Rhae!" she cut him off.

"And you think I don't?!"

She didn't answer.

Daeron paled under the weight of her mistrust. She had never, never doubted him before.

"I don't know," Mariah finally murmured, her anger gone, leaving only the heavy shade of doubt and eyes filled with pained disbelief. "I am listening to you and I can't believe it's you that I'm hearing. Daeron, that's what your father used to say about _us_, don't you remember? How it would be better if the babe died because it would clearly be another son, as incapable as I was in producing daughters? Who needed four sons in line for the Iron Throne?" She drew a shaking breath. "Were you thinking the same?"

"What?" he asked, the idea so ridiculous that he couldn't even comprehend what she was asking.

Her eyes glinted at him, her body tensed like that of a defensive cat. "Were you hoping that the next babes would die?" she asked. "When did you decide that I've given you enough _dragons_ and we really didn't need another one? As early as Rhaegel? Or did you wait until I announced that I was expecting Maekar? Which one of our sons was as expendable as Aemon is?"

He rose and started pacing the chamber, unable to look at her. She couldn't really believe that he–? Of course, it was only a battle tactic to make him reconsider. What if it wasn't?

Mariah had fallen silent too. He could feel her eyes following him but it looked like the outburst had drained her too much. She held out a shaking hand, reaching for the goblet at her bedside but when he came near, she shook her head, refusing his help.

"You're taking away his future, Daeron," she finally said, her tone more controlled. "The maesters of the Citadel… they only serve. They have no life of their own. They take no wife, father no children. I know this isn't the fate you want for him."

_It isn't_, he screamed in his head but replied calmly, evenly, "I am doing this so he can be guaranteed a future, Mariah. He and the rest of them. He is smart and talented. He loves books and treasures knowledge. He won't feel bad there..."

She huffed disdainfully.

Daeron came back to the bed but this time he knew better than reaching for her or sitting down. "Do you remember when I first became king? You advised me to take Blackfyre away from Daemon and give him lands as far away from King's Landing as possible. I didn't heed you and the realm bled. I won't make the same mistake. Never again."

That did not convince her either. "Don't you dare compare my grandson to that boy!" she burst out, her fury hot once again. "Aemon doesn't have a vain and ambitious bone in his entire body while Daemon was all for showing off and gaining more and more yet. And if you regret not heeding my advice then, heed it now: _don't do it_."

His silence was enough of an answer. She shrunk there, before his eyes. Her mouth started trembling, her hands rose to her eyes to hide the tears she would not let him see.

Never had the crown weighed him down as hard as when he left his bedchamber, leaving there only the silence of Mariah muffling her sobs against the pillow.

* * *

**A. N. This is meant to be a short series of oneshots and I might even succeed in keeping it this way, who knows. Anyway, I think that'll be my last upload for this year. Many thanks for every present – I mean, review – you gave me this year. See you soon. Merry Christmas!**


	2. Baelor

**Many thanks for the reviews!**

A Dragon Expendable

_Baelor_

"Spring is coming," Baelor said absent-mindedly when his father entered the solar he had been waiting him in.

Daeron looked at him with surprise. "It is?"

Startled, Baelor realized that the question was a serious one. In the gloomy magnificence of the Red Keep, one could easily lose sight on what was happening inside. Daeron hardly ever left it unless his presence was required for matters of state and when he did, he barely paid attention to his surroundings. "Yes," Baelor said. "It is. Actually, Rhae made me promise that tonight, I'd look for the first snowdrop around here."

Daeron bit back a smile. Baelor looked confused, like a man who didn't know how he had found himself in his current predicament. While he had gotten along with Daenerys splendidly most of the time while growing up, he had had no experience with little girls since he had become a man grown and his susceptibility to his nieces' charm could still surprise him. It felt comforting to Daeron to know that he wasn't the only one his granddaughters could sway into anything. Less foolish.

"How is Mother?" Baelor asked, his levity gone.

Daeron sighed. "There's been no change. You'll visit her tonight, I expect?"

"Of course I will." Baelor paused. "So, what did you call me for?"

Daeron took a seat at the table and started aligning the books he had left all over the shining dark surface, postponing the moment of truth for as long as he could. "I intend to send Aemon to the Citadel," he finally said and looked at his son expectantly.

Baelor smiled. "He'll be thrilled. You couldn't come up with a better nameday present."

The words tugged at Daeron's heart with a new sharp pain. A long time ago, when he had been Aemon's age, he had dreamed of visiting the Citadel and spent some time there. Would he have been happy as a maester? Some aspects of such a life of learning and using his knowledge for good purposes did hold a certain appeal and yet he wouldn't trade Mariah and his family with her for the fate of a maester. "You didn't get my meaning, Baelor," he said. "I am not sending him there on a visit. I intend to give him over to the maesters. Have him become one."

Baelor flinched but regained control almost immediately. Daeron sighed and poured some wine for both of them. Baelor's eyes widened when his father drained his goblet at once. He took a sip of his own wine. "Why?" he finally asked.

"You know why," Daeron replied.

Baelor shook his head. "No, not that. Why now? Is it really so important to do it in such a hurry?" _Or do it at all_, he wanted to ask. As far as he was concerned, Aemon was a nephew he'd rather keep. Now, it they could pack Aerion off for somewhere instead…

"Yes, it is," the King replied, rising from his seat to go to the window. "Either I will do it now, or you'll have to do it later."

The thought of finding himself saddled with such a duty was repulsive to Baelor but he could see where his father was coming from. To his shame, he felt profoundly grateful that Daeron was saving him the potential making of such a decision, telling Aemon that he'd decided that he was expendable, his future sacrificed, suffering the inevitable problems with Maekar… And still, and still… Out of all the young dragons, Aemon was the least likely one to cause any trouble of the kind they feared. But then, _I never thought that Daemon would do anything to undermine Father's throne either_, Baelor remembered. Maybe he just wasn't very good at predicting how people he cared for would turn out. Surely removing a potential threat out of his own sons' way should be a good thing? It didn't feel like it. Even his relief had a shameful tinge to it. "But we cannot afford any more grave mistakes," he finished aloud and Daeron nodded.

"He won't feel this bad there," Baelor said, not quite certain that this would be the case. "He's the brightest among them all. He thirsts for knowledge. He's a bright boy and I remember he could write decent stories to amuse the girls when he was five."

All of a sudden, Daeron smiled wickedly. "Here," he said. "I want to show you something."

He went to a cabinet and started leafing through the meticulously sorted documents. With years, he had amassed quite the number of cherished parchments and now he gave one to Baelor who looked at him, bewildered, but started reading anyway. His bewilderment grew. This was clearly some kind of list, written by a small child decades ago. _Dont talk to me as if I am stupid I andastant everyting. I know you want to sing but I just want to sleep. Give me my shuus I can put dem on myself. Cant I go araund stripped? Cloting is irksam. Dont pull your hair ander the cap. Give it to me. I wont eat bread in milk. I want a blad orange. Barefut. Yes. I wil not safer shoos.__ Whai dont you sleep when I sleep? You shud rest because soon you wont have the chance. Whai is Baelor allowed to climb the settees and I am not? Ah itll be lovely if you liiv us alon more ofan he helps me do da tings he does._

"What's this?" Baelor asked. "Who wrote this? It must be very old, it's so yellow and faded."

Daeron smiled again, the wicked sparkle in his eyes still dancing. "You did," he said. "That was the limit of your writing abilities when you were five."

For a moment, Baelor looked unsure whether he was being jested with. "You mean that I started off like this and now I can write a decent letter that people can _understand_?" he asked and when his father nodded, he laughed. "That's quite the progress!" he said. "What was this anyway? If I could write this half-coherently, I must have been old enough to express those sentiments in an articulate way."

"You were," Daeron confirmed. "But Maekar was not yet a year old. He had just started becoming interesting to you. You were trying to help his new nursemaid. Poor girl was scared out of her wits that your mother would send her away, he was rejecting her so hard. Pity that she couldn't read."

Baelor laughed again, remembering that once his brother had started making sentences, he had made the same claim Baelor had ascribed to him – that being alone with Baelor was a good thing because he helped him do grown up things. Yes, there had been times when Maekar had been amusing, even if it had been unintentionally.

"Aemon is quite gifted indeed," he said softly a while later, trying to remember when his own sons had started crafting coherent written texts. They had been six or eight year old. At least that. "And he's a very nice boy."

That was exactly the wrong thing to say since his father's face closed. Baelor had long suspected that out of all Daeron's grandchildren, Aemon was his secret favourite – the first who was born after the blood and madness of Daemon's rebellion, the one who was most like him. Once again, his hatred for Daemon rose. It felt weird because he had not hated him even as he warred with him. Hatred had come much later when he had started realizing how hard the healing of the wounds the vainglorious fool had inflicted would be. When kindness had once been met with a stab in the back, it was almost impossible for the survivors to not entertain this ugly thought that ambitions and greed might take their toll once again.

"Are you well?" Daeron asked sharply. "You are terribly pale."

"Yes," Baelor lied. "Yes, I am."

He wasn't. He could see that sending the boy away would lead to more heartache and hostility within the family. Daemon had won in more than one way.

"Do you think I am right in doing this?" the King finally asked.

_It isn't up to me_, Baelor told himself. _I am not the one doing it. He has made his mind already. Whatever I say, it won't change his decision._ "Yes," he said because it was the truth.

But truth still tasted like ashes.


	3. Elaena

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A Dragon Expendable

_Elaena_

Summer had come, invigorating the land. The flowers in the Reach bloomed and the hard-packed snow of the North gave way to softer substance, still refreshing, but pleasant to the touch. The eagles in the Vale made slowly circles, attending the travellers who gave them looks of fear, for the mountains were so dizzying and changing that the huge birds looked too close for comfort. The stench of King's Landing grew and the harbour could not contain all the ships willing to come and sell their goods. The season was a good one for whores, as well. The entire city was rejoicing.

In the heart of the Red Keep, the Stranger waited.

It was a matter of weeks, days maybe. The Queen grew fainter by the hour, wasted away by the consumption that had taken hold over her entire body. Her face was yellowish, her cheekbones sharply edged. It didn't look like there was anything under her skin but her mind – and the bright eyes. But even they were not clear. There was almost no white in them, just yellow. She rarely spoke when she didn't need to – taking breath brought too much pain.

She loved having visitors, though, and listening to them talking, so in the beginning, Daeron didn't pay any particular attention to the voice coming through the door. Only when he entered, he realized who it was.

"Elaena," he said. "When did you arrive?"

"A few hours ago," she replied. "I was getting bored at Penrose and since my only outlet was quarreling with my goodaughter, I decided to come here and quarrel with you instead." She indicated both of them. "At least you know I don't mean it. She's so serious that…" She shook her head.

Elaena was well into her fifties but it was just like her to make such an impulsive journey. And she looked none the worse for wear.

"So you decided to compensate by talking about me?" Daeron asked.

Her slight blush told him that his guess had hit the mark. No doubt Mariah had used the last remnants of her voice to complain about him. While they had reached an uneasy trust, he was well aware that she was still seeking ways to deter him in his decision about Aemon. He didn't truly mind – not because he thought she might succeed but because that gave her purpose. Something to live for.

"Please, keep talking," he invited. "I'm well aware that at the moment, I am not in Mariah's good graces."

"Just as well because you shouldn't be," his Queen said, her voice rasping. There was no heat there but the fierceness was clear. She was not going to yield or forgive. Sometimes, Daeron thought that his worst fear might no longer be the thought that she'd die but the very real possibility that she'd go to her death without forgiving him.

To his surprise and horror, Mariah then placed a hand under her cheek on the pillow and went to sleep. Just like that. Like a candle that had been extinguished. "Has she taken the milk of poppy?" he asked with faint hope.

Elaena shook her head

"No," she said, leaning over to cover the Queen better. He noticed that despite the paler streaks in her fair hair, the golden streak looked even brighter. Strange.

"You shouldn't be so close to her," he said.

She simply gave him a look of pity. "I was told that you still _slept_ next to her," she said.

"It's different," Daeron snapped, suddenly irate. He had had this conversation with the Grand Maester more than once. The man was terrified that Daeron might catch the consumption. In fact, Mariah had tried to chase him away as soon as her illness had been determined. "But if you want to end your life sooner than expected, then who am I to tell you what you should do?"

Elaena rose and nodded that they should go away from the bed. He followed.

"I didn't believe that she was truly so ill," she said softly. "I don't think I ever saw her in less than blooming health. Even her childbirths were easy."

"Maekar's wasn't," he replied and remembered that terrible day ,the waiting, the fear that she might actually die. It was strange but he had felt no concern about the babe. His love for his children had never started at birth but when they had been able to interact. With his grandchildren, it had been different, to his great surprise. Except for Aemon. He could swear that the moment they had shown him the newborn, still wet from his first bath, and not even an hour old, Aemon had seen and recognized him. He had been able to interact since his very birth.

"She complained of me, didn't she? She told you of my plans about Aemon."

Elaena poured wine for both of them. He wetted his lips but didn't swallow, It would be too easy to find peace and oblivion in the red liquid and then he might never be able to stop.

"Do you really have to?"

He bit his caustic remark back. Of course he had to! Otherwise, he wouldn't have. Not that he was sure that he was making the right call. He just had to do the best with the information he had at hand. And now, he had the chance to talk to someone who knew firsthand what it felt like to be discarded.

"I believe so. Do you think I'm wrong, Elaena?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I don't know the boy all that well. It's possible that you're doing the right thing for the realm. I don't necessarily believe it's right for the boy. But I know Maekar well enough to tell you that you'll have problems from this corner."

"I can deal with Maekar," he said curtly. He did not cherish the idea but he could deal with his son, he did not doubt it.

Elaena gave him a suspicious look and murmured something that definitely had _Daemon_ in it but when he asked her to say it louder, she didn't do it.

"What about the rest of them?" she asked instead. "The boy has three brothers and don't forget Rhaegel's boy either. Are you going to send them all away?"

The words hung in the air between them. Of course Elaena would be the one to say things as they were. Send Aemon away. Daeron had avoided the words even in his mind. He preferred to think that he was sending Aemon _to_ something – a place that he'd like, knowledge that he cherished. But essentially, he was sending him away, no matter how he dressed it. There were many ways to send someone away, even if this _away_ was the heart of the Red Keep, a Court of Love…

"No," he said.

None of them had the inclination for learning that Aemon did. He would not force a life they disliked upon them and there weren't many options for removing them from the possible struggles in a peaceful way.

"He treasures knowledge," he said. "In the beginning, it'll be hard but he'll get used to his new life eventually. It's for the best"

"Where have I heard that?" she asked sarcastically.

The look Daeron gave her showed that he remembered where she had heard it as well. But she had been older than Aemon then! And she had never had the slightest inclination for a life of piety…

"Was it so bad?" he asked.

"It was terrible!"

It had been – for her, for Daena. Even Rhaena, in the beginning. Yet she had ended up living the life Baelor had chosen for her and even exceeded his expectations.

"Terrible," Elaena said again. "Losing my freedom. Losing my life, my friends. Feeling that I wasn't good enough."

She fell silent at the sight of the pain crossing his face. But he would not change his decision, she knew it. And her rational side knew that she could not blame him. Once again, she cursed Aegon for revealing Daemon's parentage. Without that, the boy would have never gotten it into his head to rebel. He might have been alive now. And Westeros might have been a vastly better place. She had mourned Daemon deeply – but his death had also been a relief.

"Are you trying to break him?" she asked with some curiosity.

Daeron gave her a look of horror. "No!"

"Good," she said. "Because we Targaryens don't take well to someone trying to break us. And the realm usually ends up paying for that. For Westeros' sake, I hope he's like Rhaena and not Daena and I."

"He is," Daeron said quickly but in his eyes, Elaena saw the brief flicker of haunting uncertainty.


	4. Maekar

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A Dragon Expendable

_Maekar_

"What by the Seven is going on here?"

"Father!" Daella exclaimed, releasing her grip on her horse and rushing to him. He ruffled her hair affectionately, still stunned, his eyes moving from her head to the horse… who rose on two feet, dusted himself off, and said, "I was hoping you'd knock before entering, Maekar…"

"I did," Maekar replied. Of course, they hadn't heard him in the din inside, consisting mostly of Daella's excited shouts. His eyes, wide and disbelieving, took the silk stole that his daughter had used to lead Daeron along the floor. Was this how the girls spent their time in their grandmother's sickroom? No wonder they were so enthused over visiting every day. Despite himself, he smiled, pleased to see that everyone had clearly enjoyed the entertainment. The Queen's eyes were shining and for the moment, she did not look ill at all. Rather, she resembled the radiant mother Maekar remembered from his own childhood at Dragonstone before the full extent of a queen's duties and presiding over the divided court took their toll.

"Is this how the girls spend their time here?" he inquired, taking a seat near Mariah's couch. "I knew he was a devoted slave to them but I didn't know they had entirely twisted him around their little fingers."

"They don't need to." Lately, Mariah's voice had dropped to a painful, low whisper. "He twists himself over their little fingers all on his own. As you know, he has always wanted a granddaughter."

_No, I didn't know. _He doubted any of his brothers had known the difference either before Daella was born. Soon after, Rhaegel's Aelora's arrival had confirmed it, and then Rhae's. _Dyanna knew, though._ He had actually thought her far off the mark when, soon after Aemon's birth, he had heard her saying, _"I won't disappoint your hopes. No matter what, I _will_ give you granddaughters."_

"They aren't too exhausting for you?" he asked, just to make sure, and she smiled to reassure him that all was fine. Only, it wasn't. The Stranger was hovering near her shoulder, no longer bothering to mask his presence. Maekar reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. It was hot, way too hot.

"You skipped the bow this time," she commented, her eyes suddenly playful.

"That I did," he agreed.

"Somehow, it wouldn't do to bow to a horse?" she went on and he smiled. It was so nice to see her spirit restored.

"Perhaps," he admitted.

"I want to have a word with you," his father suddenly announced; surprised, Maekar saw how the light in his mother's eyes flickered and died, and he hated that it died.

"Do you really have to?" Mariah's tone was a plea more than anything else. A desperate plea that Maekar had only heard her make once. When she had been told that he, barely in his seventeenth year, was the one expected to restore order and lasting _peace_ in the steaming cauldron that was the Dornish Marches…

"Yes," Daeron said, and for a moment, Mariah closed her eyes before smiling at Daella. The little girl scrunched her face. Even she could say that the smile was not a real one. But she went to her grandmother's side as beckoned, carrying her own cup and plate of sweetmeats to place on the table, a good distance away from Mariah's own utensils.

It was clear that the conversation would not be held in the ladies' presence. Maekar could already say that he'd dislike it. At his arrival, his mother had looked at his father with love and laughter in her eyes; now, she glared at him and he didn't look surprised, as if he expected it.

"Would you want some wine?" Daeron asked as they went to his solar.

"No, thank you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Maekar replied and wondered whether Daeron would go as far as offer him tea instead. Some sweets as well, maybe. He seemed pretty reluctant to start the conversation. And then, "Am I seeing a spectre?"

Curious, Maekar joined him at the window overlooking the drawbridge where a young woman was crossing, clearly on her way to visit the Queen. She was looking around with the same childish wonder he remembered from her first visit here with their entourage.

"Just her sister," he said roughly.

"She resembles Dyanna so much, they could be twins…"

"Not at all," Maekar snapped. Still, there must be something about that because the King was not the first to say so. Of course, Astrea was silver-haired to Dyanna's black and short, instead of willowy-tall. _It must be something in the features._ And of course, Astrea also had the eyes. Violet. Haunting. _I wish Maekar would take a second wife,_ Daeron thought but he knew it wasn't likely.

"I see she has come without her much desired husband," Maekar commented and Daeron smiled a little, remembering how furious his son and goodaughter had been when her little sister had eloped right under their noses. The rumour had it that the marriage was not a good one. _At least I'm sparing Aemon this,_ he thought, _a love that went wrong_. He would also spare the boy the torment he was undergoing at the moment. Mariah would die any day now and it was simply unacceptable to him. He couldn't imagine what kind of life he would lead after. Perhaps the Citadel would provide Aemon with a shield against the heartbreak brought by such illnesses and fatal accidents like the one that had claimed his mother's life. The memory of Dyanna's white face as they brought her into the Red Keep woke again. Just a moment of carelessness, a sad misadventure…

"So?" Maekar asked, turning his back to the window. "What is it that you want to talk to me about?"

There it was. The moment. Daeron also deserted the window and the young creature of life and beauty behind it.

"Lately," he said, taking a seat and indicating that Maekar should do the same, "I've been thinking of many things."

"Such as?" No, Maekar did not like where this was going. Winded words and long introductions were never the King's way with him – Daeron was well aware that those only irked him and were likely to make him less compliant. To resort to them now, his father must be quite anxious indeed.

"Such as the stability of the kingdom and the good of the family."

"I see." Maekar's voice was very level. Such a start was never one that led to something good.

Daeron sighed and looked him in the eye. "The boys are too numerous," he said bluntly. "And that means danger as past taught us."

"Not quite." Maekar had turned very pale but he still kept his temper under control. "Daemon was never one of us and he knew it. That was what drove him. And that was something even you couldn't change."

That was the closest thing to a critique he would allow himself now. Once, he had not been so restrained! No matter how long ago the change had settled over him, it still saddened Daeron to think of it.

"I suppose all this is a way to tell me that it's my sons who have to go?" Maekar looked mildly curious. "May I know what the method will be? Exile, execution, or poison?"

"Stop it!"

Daeron was shocked by his own outburst. In the space of a breath, he was on his feet, glaring at Maekar. "Stop it immediately! Do you hear me? Stop it!"

Maekar shrugged and waited for explanation.

Daeron composed himself and sat back in his chair. "I intend to send Aemon to the Citadel," he said. "I do believe he'll have a good future as a maester."

"No," Maekar said, not bothering to raise his voice. "Out of question. No."

"I'm afraid it's my call to make." Daeron was determined not to let his son provoke him again. "As much as it pains me, I cannot allow the threat of too many dragons expand beyond control."

"Yes, that's what I've heard," Maekar said dryly. "Since I was old enough to understand. That was what Grandfather used to tell about us – Rhaegel and I."

_Not bothering to lower his voice._ Yes, Daeron also remembered. _The Dornish woman brought us nothing but her obstinacy and her too fertile cunt_, that had been a refrain Aegon often repeated when into his cups. And Daeron remembered that his father's attitude towards Maekar had changed, albeit very slightly, when it became clear that this silver-haired, purple-eyed grandson of his would be a warrior.

He didn't rise to the bait. Maekar knew that Daeron's attitude to his grandchildren was very different from Aegon's. He had to know.

"What a luxury," Maekar went on. His sharp smile could cut a diamond. "To have so many dragons that you can choose the ones who would be most useful, instead of working with what you have. I suppose I should be grateful _I_ didn't end up at the Wall… surely not even your concern for the realm could bring you to send me to the Citadel, of all places? I would have made a terrible maester. If I lasted this long there, I mean."

Daeron looked down. No, he wouldn't have sent him to the Wall even if he hadn't needed him but the truth was, he had. Ever since he had turned fourteen, Maekar had been groomed to take up the responsibilities that Aerys and Rhaegel were incapable of shouldering. Daeron didn't want to imagine what would have happened without Maekar in the Dornish Marches. Building Summerhall had not been enough and he had never expected it to be. He had built it with the specific thought of sending Maekar there to hold the volatile situation in the Marches under control – and that had been only the beginning of what would be expected of him in the future. Of course, people saw it as indulging on Daeron's part when it had been, more than anything, a hard work. Just like now. Baelor and Maekar worked, and Aerys and Rhaegel shared in their wages. To make it worse, the work Maekar did every day went almost unnoticed. Unacknowledged, certainly. Unfair, so unfair. But that was the only way. The thought that people would take his decision exactly the wrong way, thinking that he was sending away the grandson who was most like him because he thought him disappointing and useless made him grind his teeth, the way Maekar was doing now. But there was no way around it.

Still, he was enraged with Maekar as well. Not even Mariah had ever dared to tell him that he used the members of his family, exploiting the ones who could work to do so in the place of those who couldn't. _Did I never consider him as a potential threat to the succession even after Daemon because I needed him? No,_ Daeron protested against this monstrous thought. _It isn't true. I always knew he was no danger to his brothers because of who he is, what he is like._

And still… would he have considered sending Aemon away if Valarr or Matarys had proved as hopeless as Aerys and Rhaegel? Was he indeed getting carelessly dismissive because he had enough dragons to feel confident?

"I am not talking to you when you're like this," he snapped, angered at Maekar for bringing such thoughts to his mind. "We'll have this conversation later. After you compose yourself. We'll discuss it at length then. I believe you'll see the right of it. It isn't something that I do out of enjoyment, spite, or whatever ugly thoughts are crossing your mind. It's just a necessity."

Maekar rose. "We have nothing to talk about," he said curtly. "It isn't going to happen and that's not a matter of discussion."

_It isn't a matter of discussion indeed_, Daeron thought as Maekar bowed and left his presence. _But we'll discuss it anyway and it'll deal more wounds before it ends my way._


	5. Aemon

**I know, I know, it's been, like, half a year… Still, I'm here with a new chapter. Thanks to everyone who reviewed and everyone who didn't get scared of the long delay enough NOT to read.**

A Dragon Expendable

_Aemon_

"You're scared, aren't you?"

Mariah's sharp perception surprised him – not because she wasn't a keen observer, especially where he was concerned but because she had spent the last hour or two reclining with her eyes half-closed. She had barely looked at him, so how did she know?

"I am not," he lied. "Why should I be?"

She raised an eyebrow but a spell of dry coughing stopped her reply. Daeron rushed to her side and steadied her as her soul was trying to escape with the blood spray coming out of her lips.

It was a long fit, longer than the last one, for they were all growing longer and more severe. Was this how the end would come? Once, a long time ago, Daeron had hoped for a cure, or the Seven's blessing, or actually anything that could restore her to health. Now, he only hoped for a painless passing – but not yet. Not yet.

Finally, she wiped her lips but when he offered her a cup of cool tea, she shook her head. She had told him, once, that sometimes the taste of blood stayed in her mouth for too long and she felt queasy when introducing it further in by drinking anything.

For a long moment, she clung to him. She did not want to let go, she never had – but when she did, her eyes were as harsh as they had been before. "Because Maekar won't do it for you, you know."

Daeron blushed. It was true, he was hoping that Maekar would make the explanations – and Mariah was wrong about their youngest as often as Daeron himself was. Perhaps now, it would be one of those times when she'd be wrong and he'd be right. How could he go through it if he had to do it himself?

She was staring at him expectantly. "Can you really do it?" she asked. "Look him in the eye and tell him that you're sending him away forever for no better reason than your own demons? Can you? He's quite smart, for a seven-year-old but is he smart enough to understand that it has nothing to do with _him_?"

"Be silent!" he snapped because she was reaching straight to his heart and tearing it apart. She was doing it on purpose, too.

Mariah was about to keep pushing and perhaps, one of those days she'd break through his defences. But her voice betrayed her once again and as she lay down trying to inhale without panting, Baelor entered without much ceremony.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, taking her hand.

She smiled weakly. "Better," she said and he pretended to believe the lie. They had all become so good in pretending. As she always did with her visitors, she looked again to make sure that his chair was not close enough for him to inhale her own breath by accident. Sure, he was a man with a very strong constitution but why invite the risk?

"Is it raining?" she asked, noticing his soaked clothes. His hair was clinging to his skull.

He nodded and for a moment, all three of them stayed silent. Then, Baelor rose to bring her another blanket as Daeron flung the shutters quite open so she could hear the soft pattering, see the sky's tears. Rain was a precious thing to Mariah, for it brought life to a land that was so very dry. Rain meant nurturing crops, feeding rivers, easing breath in the swelter. Rain was life itself.

A moment later, Baelor followed his father to the window. "Aemon is coming," he said in a low voice. "I saw him on my way here. Are you going to tell him now?"

Daeron nodded unhappily.

"I hope you find the right words," Mariah said coldly. "If those exist at all. Go now. I don't want to see you."

How had she heard? Daeron headed for the door and Baelor followed but Mariah stopped him. "You may stay. It wasn't your cursed idea in the first place."

Baelor stopped immediately, a rather cowardly part of him secretly glad his mother didn't know that he considered the decision a right one. No matter the strong resemblance in their looks, there were things in which they differed greatly.

At the door, Daeron looked back but neither was looking at him. Mariah had closed her eyes. In the candlelight, her face showed agony and Daeron hated himself for putting it there. Baelor was staring out into the curtain of rain sweeping all over the vast expanse of King's Landing. _Their mother did give them her love for rains_, Daeron thought. _Forever._

Aemon was already in the King's solar, a book was open at the table, and he was studying a small dragon glass statuette. One of the first things Daeron had done after taking the throne had been banishing a good deal of Aegon's dragon furniture to make room for something else. The figure Aemon was now holding showed a woman dancing in the fire. The tiny item was crafted so artfully that even the disturbing mixture of agony and ecstasy on her face was depicted.

"Do you like it?" Daeron asked and his grandson turned.

"The sculptor must have been a very good one," the boy replied and Daeron saw that the book open on the table was one of the art of sculpturing. Aemon did have a wide range of interests indeed.

"Why are we here?" Aemon asked and there was confusion in his deep purple eyes. Lately, the children had been seeing their grandfather in Mariah's rooms only.

Daeron sighed and felt his determination go down, his mood growing as dark as the blackness outside. He'd better get this over, instead of postponing, confusing Aemon, prolonging the torture for both of them.

"Have a seat," he said. "We need to talk."

He always spoke to Aemon as if the boy was a grown up but he felt a pang when he saw his grandson's expression change to caution and foreboding. Aemon went to his usual seat left to Daeron's chair but he clearly felt uncomfortable – for the very first time since they had placed the newborn in Daeron's arms. This light after the darkness of Daemon's rebellion, this tiny life, this hope that Daeron had to severe now with his own hands.

There was a bowl of raisins on the table but Aemon didn't reach for it. He was waiting, his uneasiness growing.

"What do you know about the Citadel?" Daeron finally asked.

Aemon gave him a look of such surprise that Daeron felt stupid. Of course Aemon knew much about it. He was still beating around the bush. "You know that maesters are the smartest people in Westeros. Would you like to live there?"

The joy in Aemon's eyes was instant – and its fading was just as instant. Daeron wouldn't be so somber if he was making him the gift of sending him there just for a while. "Live there?" he finally whispered. "Like… forever?"

"No! You'll still come back from time to time… often…"

"But then, I'll have to go back there, won't I?"

Daeron nodded. "One day, you'll become a maester and I think you'll be the best one the Citadel will have. You're already smarter than most boys of ten."

Thankfully, Aemon was too young to truly know what Daeron was depriving him of. He just looked at him, not understanding.

Daeron bit his lip, desperate to make it right. "That's much like what most boys of high birth must do when they're just a little older than you," he said. "Only we Targaryens keep our sons with us."

"Yes," Aemon said, "I've heard…" And then, something else occurred to him and his eyes went dark with horror. "But I won't be a Targaryen anymore, will I? That's what maesters do when they take their vows. I…"

He didn't finish. At this moment, Daeron wished the child wasn't so smart, so well-read. He could say it wasn't true but Aemon would know the lie. "Those are only words," he said. "And words are wind. You're of our blood, that's all that matters. I…"

"Are you doing this because of the practice yard?" Aemon suddenly asked, his eyes trained down on the table. His voice came out choked. "Because I'm useless and I'll never be a warrior?"

It was getting more terrible by the minute. Of course the child would have noticed his tutors' disappointment, although he'd never let it show. The whispers, the pitying looks at court – now, Daeron remembered those all too clearly those from his own childhood. Had he _chosen_ to forget how anxious and uneasy those could make a child, even one as smart as Aemon? How deeply they could undermine his confidence?

"When I was your age," he said softly, "I was the same as you. It has nothing to do with the practice yard, Aemon. You must believe me."

He almost added that Aemon would when he would be a man – and it was true. At least he hoped so, he had to. But it would sound condescending. The whole exchange was going the worst way possible. "There are many ways to be of use," he said softly, "and the training yard isn't yours or mine. You'll make a good maester, Aemon. I believe that. I also believe it'll be a good fit for you. You'll see."

The boy nodded without looking at him. "Thank you, Grandfather," he said. "A good maester… thank you. May I go now?"

"Yes."

Despite Aemon's steady voice, Daeron had noticed that his fingers had gone white gripping the edge of the table. He was trying so hard to be brave but his face was set in a mask that would not last long. Daeron only hoped it would hold on until Aemon reached a safe place.

The boy rose and bowed as he would at any other time. The closing of the door was as soft as ever, although Daeron noticed that he didn't return the Kingsguard's greeting.

The dragon glass statuette flew through the solar and broke the colour glass of the window, making a great noise and a storm of coloured shards, and yet it brought Daeron no peace.

**The End**


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